


Sex Injuries

by releasetheglitch



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond - All Media Types
Genre: Bond is besotted he just doesn't realize it, Humor, M/M, Walking In On Someone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-30
Updated: 2016-07-30
Packaged: 2018-07-28 07:14:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7630345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/releasetheglitch/pseuds/releasetheglitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bond has a habit of breaking into Q's flat. This time, though, he sees something different.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sex Injuries

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thejabberwock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thejabberwock/gifts).



> Inspired by [this](http://bondsboffin.tumblr.com/post/147007061492/but-what-if-bond-breaks-into-qs-flat-in-the) headcanon of bondsboffin/thejabberwock!

Bond lands in Heathrow on a Tuesday night, for once feeling invigorated instead of bruised and sullen. The mission had gone remarkably well—a rarity, considering the sort he’s usually sent to deal with.

As much as he’d like to attribute the success wholly to himself, he knows that Q is to thank as well. His new invention, a kitschy little sonar bomb the size of his cufflinks, had decimated the smuggling ring in a matter of seconds. He grins fondly at the memory of Q, bright-eyed as he spat out phrases like “long-range position fixing system” and “refractive deep sound channel” as if they were nursery rhymes.

It’s the reason he’s standing in front of Q’s doorstep now, a stone’s throw away from the Covent Garden Market, instead of his own flat. This isn’t the first time he’s shown up at Q’s door, uninvited. He already knows the grandpa-ish decor, the floral prints in drab colours and clumps of cat hair languishing in corners. As far as breaking into the flats of co-workers go, Q is definitely one of his favourites. He only sighs and rolls his eyes and, ever the gracious host, offers Bond a cup of tea that Bond always foregoes for the whisky at the back of the shelves. It’s a familiar routine. Welcome, even.

Tonight, Bond walks up the three flights to Q’s door and jimmies open the lock in a matter of minutes. He’s hounded Q about this in the past; how a man who lives and breathes state secrets can leave his flat wholly undefended. To which Q had simply snapped, “Well, you’re here every night, aren’t you?”

(He’s not. It isn’t as if Bond’s _gone soft_ —it’s just easier to kip on Q’s couch instead of going back to an unfurnished flat, or seeking out a partner in dim-lit bars and seedy clubs. Bond is nothing if not resourceful, after all.)

The cats greet him at the door, as they’ve always done since Bond’s started bringing them treats and jingly toys that causes Q no end of grief. Turing, the little black one, twines against his ankles and meows while Lovelace, the monstrosity of a maine coon, tilts her head upwards as if to demand treats.

“I haven’t anything for you tonight,” he informs them sternly, amid a chorus of joyful purrs. “Where is your father?”

Lovelaces flicks a ear dismissively. Bond nods.

“In his room, you say?” Turing stands on his hind paws and rubs his face against Bond’s knee and Bond laughs, giving them both a good scritch behind the ears. “Right then, helpful as always, sir and madam.”

He leaves them sprawled in the entryway while he goes in search of Q. The kitchen lights are off, stacks of dirty dishes piled in the sink and Bond makes a face. Q’s not a lad of twenty anymore, no matter how he looks the part. He ought to stop living like one.

If Bond lived here, he’d have the place sparkling in no time. Because Bond would hire a cleaner to do it for him.

As he turns the corner, he begins to hear the sounds. A lot of tossing and turning. Q is saying something in a low voice that he can’t make out. Nightmare, perhaps? Or maybe Q is just talking to himself again? He does that. Once Bond fell asleep during one of Q’s lectures about network security and found him still talking when he awoke.

He pushes the door open and freezes in the doorframe.

Ah. Option three, then.

Well, well. Who knew the little boffin had a sex life of his own?

The tableau before him could very well be a scene from a painting. Q’s dark hair a halo in the white sheets, his body pressed under the weight of a tanned body. A man who, though not up to Bond’s standards of physique, is not unhandsome either. Bond licks his lips, feeling the familiar tightening of his trousers.

“Mind if I join in?” he drawls, leaning against the doorframe in a deceptively casual manner.

The reaction he gets is more than he could’ve hoped for. The bloke rolls away from Q with a sharp curse and Q shrieks, actually shrieks. He fumbles about for sheets to cover himself up with but manages to get tangled in them instead, wobbling precariously before rolling to the floor with a dull _thud_.

And a crack.

“The hell is wrong with you, mate?” the bloke is shouting. Bond doesn’t even spare him a glance as he pushes his way to Q’s side. Q, who is groaning and clutching his foot in a death grip. Bond feels a twinge of guilt.

“Alright there, Q?”

“What do you think?” Q snaps through gritted teeth, then turns his attention to the man standing behind James. “Eric, leave now.”

“But—”

“Now!”

Amid much grumbling, Eric eventually dresses and leaves. Bond listens for the slam of the front door before raising an eyebrow.

“First date, hmm?”

“Shut the bloody fuck up and call medical,” Q snarls. “I think I broke my toe.” Despite his obvious infuriation, Bond privately thinks he’s never looked better than he does now, naked and barking out orders.

Bond kneels down beside him and bats his hands away. Sure enough, the flesh around his pinkie toe is red and quickly approaching purple. There’s an odd bend in the joint.

“Definitely broken,” Bond confirms, pulling out his phone. “Want me to ice it for you?”

Q throws his head back and sucks in a breath through his teeth. “What I would like, double-oh seven, is to dunk your head in a vat of cold water, until it shrinks a few sizes.”

“So, yes?”

Q sighs. “Yes. Get to it.”

On his way to the kitchen, Bond punches in the number for medical—he has to log in to the employee website to find it. No self-respecting double-oh agent calls medical if they can help it. He gives Q’s information and address to the bored-sounding woman on the other end of the line as he drops a few cubes of ice into a dish towel. And then—

“Cause of incident?”

Bond doesn’t even have to think about it. “Sex injury.”

***

“Sex injury?” Q screeches, probably loud enough to be heard all the way from M’s office.

Bond smirks, unrepentant. This is the greatest fun he’s had in a while. “You must admit, it’s an apt description.”

Q glares at him. But given that he’s doing so in a small cot with his hair still rumpled and sweaty from sex, Bond can’t take him too seriously. “So you’re the reason why some tit tried to feel up my balls in the ambulance.”

He can’t help it. He really can’t. The image of Q, wrapped in a sheet and squawking at a doctor while he attempts to get at his genitals is the funniest thing he’s ever imagined. Bond throws his head back and laughs, tears streaming down his cheeks.

Q’s lips twitch, and he finally cracks a smile as well. “It _is_ a little ridiculous, isn’t it? I can hear the office gossip already.”

“The Quartermaster of MI6, having such filthy sex that he breaks a toe? Pretty soon you’ll have as colourful a reputation as the double-ohs.”

“Better than the bullshit about me sticking it in a USB port, I suppose,” says Q, rolling his eyes. “By the way, why were you in my flat tonight?”

Oh, yes. Bond had almost forgotten already. The mission. Somehow, the high of taking down the smuggling ring had fallen by the wayside at the sight of Q, naked and flushed in his sheets. Bond’s pretty sure he’ll have that image in his mind forever. “Can’t I come visit my favourite Quartermaster?”

“At two in the morning?” Q asks, incredulous.

Bond shrugs. “Never stopped me before.”

They’ve never really talked about this. The fact that Q lets Bond sleep over whenever he shows up in the middle of the night. The fact that Bond still shows up, despite being rumoured to have the attention span of a gnat. And Bond doesn’t really stop to think about it, but seeing Q the way he did has shifted things. Suddenly, it’s no longer so easy to keep things so compartmented.

Q looks beautiful in the watery light of the medical bay. Without his glasses on, his eyes are green and vibrant. His hands fly about while he talks—rants, if Bond’s to be honest—and his mouth. His _mouth_. Bond can’t stop watching the way it moves.

The moment is disrupted when the door flies open and one of the doctors, Bond has no idea which one and doesn’t quite care, comes in. “Hello there, Q. Good news. We have the results from your x-ray back and a break of this size won’t take very long to heal. You’ll be out of your cast in a month.”

“A _month_?” From Q’s tone, you’d think that the doctor had just told him they’d need to amputate. “That’s ridiculous. I have a plethora of inventions that need to be tested in person, and my mobility is of the utmost importance.” Bond smiles to himself. It’s a well-known fact that the Quartermaster is just as stubborn as the double-ohs when it comes to matters of his health.

The doctor sighs, likely used to dealing with reticent patients. “I understand your frustration, but there’s little we can do. Honestly, you should count yourself lucky. I’ve treated patients in far worse shape than you after a, um, incident of a personal nature.”

“You can say sex injury,” Bond offers in what he believes is a helpful tone.

 “I’ll show you a sex injury,” Q mutters, the tips of his ears stained pink.

“Will you?” Bond grins, pushing Q’s hair back and completely ignoring the flustered doctor scribbling down notes on his clipboard. “I’ll hold you to that one day.”

And even as Q splutters and slaps his hand away, Bond doesn’t miss the interested glint in his eye.

***

Eric knocks on the door to Quentin’s flat. The date last month hadn’t gone so great, but he’s willing to give it another try. Up until the… _incident_ , Quentin had been great fun. A witty conversationalist, a good listener, and a gorgeous arse to boot. Lord knows he’s had a few cock-ups in front of his dates before.

The lock turns, and he flashes his best grin. “Hey Quentin, how are—”

He stops, because this is not Quentin. It’s the same blond man from that night; the same cold eyes and arrogant smirk, like he expects the whole world to be handed to him on a platter. The only difference is, he’s naked from the waist up this time. And with a trail of red marks across his collarbone.

“Here to see Q?” the man drawls. “Sorry to disappoint you, but he’s not accepting new sexual partners at this time.”

“I—” Eric tries, mouth gaping, but the door is already slamming shut.

The last thing he hears before he trudges back to his car is a moan, somewhere deep inside the flat.


End file.
